


motel 6

by shutupnerd



Category: Dangan Ronpa Another Episode: Ultra Despair Girls, Super Dangan Ronpa 2
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Angst, Bathing, Burning, Cleanliness, Dirt - Freeform, Drowning, Dysfunctional Relationships, Fear, Hair Washing, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Kinda, M/M, Rewrite, he just doesn't understand them, i barely remember writing this, i wrote this in a blind haze and remember nothing about it unless i go back and read it, i wrote this while ryo watched me, it's unrecognizable, izuru kamukura has emotions, kamukoma - Freeform, mature themes, this all takes place in a crusty ass motel, this is also a little weird, this is an overhaul of my first ever fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-24
Updated: 2020-08-24
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:35:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26075020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shutupnerd/pseuds/shutupnerd
Summary: Izuru and Komaeda stop for the night in an old motel. Miraculously, it has running water.please check tags for potentially triggering content.edit: I ACCIDENTALLY TAGGED THIS IZURU/CHIAKI OOPS
Relationships: Kamukura Izuru/Enoshima Junko (mentioned), Kamukura Izuru/Komaeda Nagito
Comments: 10
Kudos: 149





	motel 6

**Author's Note:**

> fun fact about this fic: my friend ryo spectated on this doc for like two hours as i wrote about 2k words in one sitting. he just sat there benevolently as i lost my mind trying to get everything to sound right. it was like i was hosting the worst livestream ever.

The curtains have been drawn. The sun set three hours and 14 minutes ago. Based on the amount of distance he and Komaeda (he does not like to call him Servant, does not like the implication of ownership and subjugation) need to cover tomorrow, they should go to bed soon. It will give them the adequate amount of time both to fall asleep and rest, based on their individual sleeping patterns. He has already sent Komaeda to prepare himself to sleep, to clean himself as best they can. It is difficult in a world set to ruin, but cleanliness is something they will both strive for, even in the most disgusting of circumstances, like this run-down, grimy motel they have found. Izuru is sure Komaeda would have foregone his own hygiene long ago if he was not here. He would ramble rhetoric about how he doesn’t deserve what little health and comfort he can cling onto--he has tried, before. That was the first night Kamukura rolled up his sleeves and  _ put  _ him in the tub. 

He had never argued about the topic of cleanliness after that, only did his best to get Kamukura himself to keep clean. Sure, their hygiene was important, but sometimes efficiency had to be prioritized. Last night had been one of those nights--Izuru had wanted to keep moving, put as much distance between them and what used to be Tokyo as was humanly possible. They were avoiding cities for the time being; supplies may have been more plentiful, but with them came survivors, bothersome and murderous. Fleas on his back. He wasn’t particularly interested in constantly flicking them off. So they stuck to towns for now, virtually devoid of people but awash with stores, pharmacies, and mattresses that wouldn’t collapse under them. This motel had, somehow, a working plumbing system. That was the only reason they had stayed--the condition of most everything else was appalling. But the doors locked, the roof was in no danger of collapse, and the window locks slid shut. So they could look over the strange stains for one night.   
  
Neither of them wanted to, however.   
  
The sound of running water filled the room--it would be cold. They would boil it before they drank anything, but he had deduced that it was safe enough to bathe in. Good timing; that was what Komaeda had said.    
  
“Don’t you think it’s about time to wash your hair, sir?” He had smiled lightly, clasping his hands behind his back (as if to hold back from touching back and illustrating his point.). “You sent me first, so once I finish, I’ll clean you up. Is that alright?”    
  
He had simply nodded in silent agreement, some serpentine thing curdling his stomach. One of his singular inefficiencies was cleaning his hair--more than once, he had taken a knife into his hand and considered shearing it to the neck. But Komaeda loved it so. Adored taking care of it as best he could, running his hands through it and combing it out whenever he was permitted. Junko loved it as well, playing with it and pulling whenever she got the chance. She’d complain and whine if he cut it. So he left it alone--for those reasons alone. At least, that’s what he told himself.

He didn’t think of himself as someone who liked things, as someone who had the capability or need for something as arbitrary as “like” and “dislike.” And yet, as he shed his jacket and let Komaeda undo his tie and unbutton his shirt, it weighed on him. The bathroom floor left much to be desired, so they set an extra towel down and placed their clothes atop it. Komaeda only shed his jacket and shirt, kneeling on a stool beside the tub so he could have better access to Izuru’s head. His ribs were beginning to become more prominent--Izuru would have to make sure he started eating more. (It wasn’t him worrying, it wasn’t care--so he told himself. He couldn’t have Komaeda randomly collapsing on him, his frail health worsening even more than it already had. It was purely practical. He couldn’t have a weak spot, he refused to acknowledge the strange thoughts and ideas that Komaeda put in his head and chest. They would only lead to more trouble than they were worth.) 

The water was cold, gooseflesh raising on his bare skin. They had looted a general store, pulling away with multiple shampoo bottles. Komaeda had been especially lucky that time, even finding a bottle of conditioner to ease out the knots. It would cut down their time in the tub by nearly an hour; it would make this far more efficient. Efficiency was key, practicality was his only goal. That was what he would keep telling himself. This had nothing to do with feeling, he was sure. Well, he wasn’t. But even the idea of feeling was foreign and looming in a way that Izuru didn’t particularly like. It was bothersome, so he simply ignored it. Komaeda turned the tap and gently placed Izuru’s head under the freezing water, watching it course through the thick hair. He wondered if he had always had it this long, or if it had grown through some odd side effect of Hope’s Peak playing god. Nobody had ever answered him, and he was always kept from his own case files. Not even Junko knew, really. Well, it wasn’t as if she would have cared. She would have walked over whatever he was before--trampled him under 5-inch boots. But he was not that boy anymore, whoever he had been. He was inconsequential. Izuru was here now, standing over the grave of Hinata. 

The water cascaded over him and chilled him down to his bones. Droplets crawled down the skin of his neck and back, rolling effortlessly over the raised scars, diverting their course every which way. Komaeda never commented about them, never asked any questions. He was brimming with them, burning behind his eyes every time Kamukura undressed in front of him. But he did as he was (albeit silently) told and the words died in his throat. For someone who was normally so chatty at the most inopportune times, he was good at being quiet when it was asked of him. Sometimes. Silence was the order he always seemed to disobey, but when it truly mattered, he would seal his lips and do his work. Now seemed to be one of those times. 

To be “vulnerable” was detestable and undesirable on all accounts. Izuru could see no benefit to bearing his weaknesses to others, under any circumstances. And yet he sat there, in the freezing-cold water that was slightly  _ too  _ clear. Everything about this was a little off, keeping him on his guard. He stared at the smeared mirror, awash with oily fingerprints of people who were either long gone or rotting outside. Even the scent of death had begun to dull in his nose. Soon he wouldn’t deign to notice it at all. There were several things beneath him, and that list would only grow with each passing day. Komaeda would gladly put himself on that list, but Izuru wasn’t quite sure where he would place the man.

When the shampoo bottle was cracked open, the blatantly manufactured scent of rose filled the bathroom, cutting through the stale air like a blush-tinted knife. Manufactured made sense for him. But when he was as powerful as he was, manufactured trumped natural any time. Nobody came close. It was lonely at the top, sure, but the simple fact of not being alone was still a new concept. He had been alone for months. It hadn’t been  _ true and utter  _ isolation, but when his only outside contact had been being fed and tested, he had been more like a piece in a museum than a person. And once he had left the feeling (if it was a feeling. He knew almost everything, but he couldn’t be sure he knew exactly if what he experienced was feeling.) didn’t leave him. It only morphed, to a pit in his stomach and a sense of isolation in all aspects of his life. Even now, Komaeda’s hands in his hair and his soft humming snaking into his ears, there was a degree of loneliness that persisted. He was going to smell like roses when this was done. He didn’t feel any particular way about it. 

The only time he hadn’t been alone, rather, the only time that the sensation of singlehood was dulled, was in the bed of whoever had decided they’d wanted him for the night. Physical pleasure was brief, mindless, and ultimately useless, but anything that put a cloud in his head and let him  _ slow down  _ was welcome. He would never be fully stopped, his mind and body’s make had been made too precise to ever fully stop, but if the edge could be stunted, he would take it. 

There were bruises on his knees. He stared at them, the feeling of fingers scratching his scalp and the chill of the water the only things keeping him in the moment. KOmaeda was good for that, as well. He had the uncanny ability to sense whenever Izuru would remove himself from the environment, at least mentally. Nobody expected him to speak, nobody expected him to move, nobody expected much of him at all, really. He had time and time again proven himself to be someone who acted on his own terms and his own terms alone. (Except, that was a lie he had so convincingly fed them. He did not act unless he was forced to act. By now, the only people who could coax things as base as self-defense and physical  _ want  _ were Junko and Komaeda.) Everyone summarily ignored him or hid in mute fear. That was well and good with Izuru. The less people there were, the less irritations he had to deal with. 

“I’m going to rinse your hair out now. Could you put your head back under the tap?” 

The words were low in his ears. He would probably have missed them, if he was able to miss things such as that. The cold was still shocking and unpleasant, but he was growing used to it. He had been through worse, anyway. There was always something worse he had already gone through. There were fresh bites on his shoulders and neck that proved that much.

Komaeda would clean those next, after he finished with his hair. He lifted the mass over the side of the tub, slender hands pressing Izuru to lean forward so his hair wouldn’t touch the floor. “Please, give me a minute to wash these sections. I’m sorry that it’s uncomfortable. I’ll make it up to you somehow.” The words were punctuated with light chuckles, and if Izuru looked back, he probably would have seen legitimate guilt in Komaeda’s eyes. It wasn’t as if Izuru was any stranger to discomfort. They both knew that well. They also both knew that Izuru didn’t particularly mind it. He didn’t dislike pain. It was a breakup from the day-to-day. But it became boring when he allowed it. It was better when it was a surprise (as difficult as it was to surprise him). Junko had perfected it, it seemed--bringing it down upon his head when he least expected her to. Even now, she was still unpredictable to him. Perhaps that was why he let her do what she did. 

But that didn’t explain why he kept Komaeda without complaint. He was perfectly capable of all that the other did for him, there was no logical use for him other than convenience. Even then, he was a double-edged sword, often more trouble than he was worth. His physical illnesses and frankly irritating self-deprecation alone were more than good reasons for Izuru to leave him on the side of the road for Kuzuryuu to find and kick senseless. And yet, he kept him. Made sure the other Remnants knew that Komaeda was under his protection. 

His hair was rinsed once more. He felt heavy, like he was being dragged down. Like if he let his guard down, he’d be pulled underneath the too-clear water and Komaeda wouldn’t be able to pull him out. For all he’d been through, he hadn’t yet drowned. His lungs had stayed clear of water. 

He flinched when the washcloth touched the back of his neck. 

Komaeda immediately drew back, his fear emanating from him. “K-kamukura? Are you alright? Did I do something wro--”   
  
“No,” he ground out, pushing away the feeling of nails scraping down his torso and hot breath in his ear. He was in the bath--any lipstick would have already been washed off. He was sure Komaeda knew he wasn’t Izuru’s only partner. Someone as smart as him would have to know that Junko had claimed Izuru almost immediately and all he had done was go along with it. He had been resistant, incredibly resistant. She had fought him tooth and nail into bed, pushed and pushed and pushed until his back hit the mattress and he let her take what she wanted. She was good at what she did, but she demanded far more than she gave. And he gave it to her. 

“It’s alright. You did not upset me, Komaeda.” 

“I beg to say that I’m  _ always  _ a disappointment and an upset to someone so wonderful. But if you say so, I guess I’ll keep going!” Just like that, his sunny disposition had returned. He was far gentler, rubbing soap into the teeth marks as if it would hurt him. The sting was there, but it was far from Izuru’s list of priorities. What even  _ was  _ his list of priorities right now? When was the last time he  _ had  _ a priority?   
  


He was silent until Komaeda was done. The other left the room, handing him the cleanest towel they would find. Nothing here was truly  _ clean.  _ Not even them. He returned once Izuru had dried his body and covered himself. He knelt in front of Komaeda, a towel unfolded and rubbed on his head, tangling and soaking up the wetness. Before long, it was soaked through. Izuru was cold. Too cold. But he said nothing. It was like this quite often. They would share quiet for hours, if Komaeda knew that Izuru needed it. 

But with quiet came his little attempts at comfort. Izuru hadn’t yet decided if he craved them or wanted to slam Komaeda into the wall when he placed a hand on his shoulder, leaning down and kissing the top of his head. “You don’t need to hide things from me, Kamukura. I won’t tell a soul, I promise!”

He broke his quiet. “What would I need to hide, Komaeda?”

“There were lipstick marks where I touched you.” 

He froze. He remembered everything--he was made to be unable to forget things. And yet, he had no recollection of Junko touching him there. 

She had to have done it while he slept. Another gift from her, another reminder of who pulled his strings, who owned him at the end of the day. It wasn’t Hope’s Peak, not anymore. He wasn’t sure if he had upgraded, or plummeted far lower. He probably never would be. That irritated him. Immensely. 

So he didn’t bother to get fully dressed, once his hair was dry. Beyond an old pair of pants, he didn’t feel like putting anything else on. The back of his neck felt like it was on fire. He had never burned, either, but it certainly seemed a more interesting prospect than drowning in a bathtub in the middle of a ghost town. A fire would be seen. He would not be forgotten if he burned, would not be left behind forever like he would be if he simply sunk under the water and never came back up. 

He went straight to sleep, Komaeda next to him. They got tangled up, as they so often did. Komaeda cuddled up to him, pressing his face into the back of Izuru’s neck and burying himself in clean hair. It was quiet, but for the chirping of the crickets just outside the window. He would not sleep easy, he never was one to just close his eyes and drift. Let his guard down, and he might just wake up somewhere new. He turned over, kissing Komaeda softly.

Whether there was care in it, he wasn’t sure. But he was becoming a vulnerability, a weakness. He should shed himself of him before it became too late, but he found himself loath to let go. Their bodies slotted together next to each other perfectly, like they had been designed for each other. Perhaps they had. But that wasn’t for Izuru to decide. Not much was, honestly.

He just pulled Komaeda into him, feeling his ribs stick through his skin against Izuru’s chest. Something pulled at him about it. But he couldn’t really name what. Truly, he couldn’t understand it; why he kept Komaeda against all logic and reason. And it irked him. 

But so did most everything anyone did. He could put up with this irritation. The pros outweighed the cons, even as bothersome and tricky and Komaeda was. He pulled Komaeda flush against him and closed his eyes. The doors and windows were locked. They were clean. The room wasn’t, but that didn’t matter, not really. They were safe, in a sense. Safe as they could logically be. 

He didn’t sleep. He closed his eyes and pretended, playacted as best as he could, able to convince almost anyone.    
  
But he didn't think Komaeda bought it when he woke up. And yet, he respected the choice, let him be. 

“Good morning, Kamukura,” he whispered.

And that was all the reason Izuru needed to keep him. 


End file.
